Wait, had his English gotten better?
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing,” I said, picking up the pace so that he fell behind and hopefully stayed there. “But it stops now. I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. Just because I found you getting your ass kicked doesn’t mean a thing. And you’re welcome, by the way.”
He snorted. “A lot of help you were. You didn’t even tell anyone at school it was me you saw getting beat up, did you?”
I growled in frustration. There were actually a bunch of things I wanted to ask—like how he’d healed up so quickly, or what had happened to his old raggedy clothes, or how his speech seemed to randomly fluctuate between a Bay Area teenager and a Confucian bard—but I didn’t want to encourage him.
“You dream of a mountain,” Quentin said.
I stopped in my tracks and turned around. We were completely alone on the block, a splintery picket fence hemming us in on one side, and an empty lot with more abandoned bicycles than grass across the street.
“You dream of a mountain,” he repeated. “Green and full of flowers. Every night when you fall asleep, you can smell the jasmine blossoms and hear the running streams.”
He said this with real drama. Like it was supposed to hit home for me. Forge some kind of a connection between us.
I smirked. Because it didn’t.
“Last night I dreamed I was floating in space and watching the stars,” I said, feeling smug. “But you should keep trying that pickup line. I know at least a couple of girls at school like cheese.”
Quentin didn’t respond for a second. Apparently I was the one who’d floored him.
He broke out into a gigantic, ear-to-ear smile. Under better circumstances it would have been gorgeous.
“That’s it!” he said, hopping in excitement. “That proves it! You really are mine!”
Okay. That kind of talk had to stop right here and right now. I inhaled deeply to unleash both a torrent of verbal abuse and a refresher in women’s history over the last century.
But before I could give him what he asked for, Quentin jumped onto the neighboring fence, taking five feet in one smooth leap as easily as you’d take the escalator. He laughed and hooted and cartwheeled back and forth on the uprights, balancing on a surface that must have been narrower than a row of quarters.
My head began to spin. Something about his uninhibited display made it feel like there was a light shining behind my eyes, or like I was breathing in too much oxygen. I felt all the nausea that he should have, flipping around like that.
He wasn’t normal. He must have been a gymnast or parkourista or whatever from online videos. Maybe a Shaolin.
I didn’t care. I kicked the fence in the hope that he would fall and crotch himself, and I ran straight home.
A few minutes later I crossed the finish line into my driveway, gasping for breath.
I hurried with the keys to my house, my hands clumsier than usual. The click of the lock never sounded sweeter. Finally, finally, I slipped inside and sighed.
Only to find Quentin sitting at the kitchen table with my mom.
4
I checked behind me as a reflex and banged my face against the door in the process.
“Genie,” Mom said, beaming like we’d won the lottery. “You have a visitor. A friend from school.”
I pointed at Quentin while holding my nose. “How did you get inside?”
He looked puzzled. “I knocked on the door and introduced myself to your mother? We’ve been chatting for a while now.”
I had taken the shortest route home and hadn’t seen him pass me. Given that I was a decent runner, he must have sprinted here like a bat out of hell. How was he not winded in the slightest?
“Quentin is so nice,” Mom said. “He explained how you rescued him this morning. He came over to say thank-you in person.” She pointed to a fancy-wrapped box of chocolates on the kitchen counter.
“I had to ask around for your address,” Quentin said. “In case you were wondering.”
I rubbed my eyes. I felt like I was going crazy. But I could figure out his little magic trick later, once he was gone.
“I don’t know how you got here before me,” I said to Quentin. “But get the hell out.”
“Pei-Yi! Rude!” Mom snapped.
Quentin made eye contact with me. Maybe he thought I’d stay quiet in front of my mother for the sake of decorum. That a boy’s good name was more important than a girl’s safety. If so, he was dead effin’ wrong.
“Mother,” I said slowly. “While this person seems like a nice young man on the surface, he threatened me during class this morning. He’s not my friend.”
My mother looked at him.
“I’m so sorry!” Quentin cried out, his face stricken. He shot to his feet and lowered his head. “I came here to apologize. And to explain my horrendous behavior.”
“I’d love an explanation,” I said. “Starting with what happened in the park.”
“That was a misunderstanding that got out of hand,” he said. “Those men weren’t even bad people, just ordinary folk I tried to make conversation with. But I accidentally insulted them to such a degree that they sought to teach me a lesson. I can barely even blame them.”
I frowned. At the time, the beating had seemed a bit extreme for a misunderstanding. But then again, I hadn’t turned the other cheek in class myself. I guess he had a knack for pissing people off to the point of violence.
“After they left I picked up your bag, cleaned myself off, and brought it to school,” Quentin said. “I knew you went to the same one as me because I recognized your uniform.”
“It was just a fortunate coincidence I was assigned to your class on my first day,” he went on. “I was so happy when I saw the person who saved my life this morning that I lost my head and made the same error all over again. My English is from a book, and I still don’t know how things really work in America.”
Mom sniffled like she was watching a soap finale.
“I’m sorry to have spoken to you so personally,” Quentin said, his voice cracking.
I bit the inside of my cheek. I wasn’t inclined to believe any of his BS, but he said it in such a heartfelt way that I was actually considering giving him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just a really, really awkward transplant with no sense of personal space.
That’s when the bastard winked at me.
Fine. Two could play at this game.
“You know what would be great?” I said, putting on a coy expression. “If we could have you and your parents over for dinner. Let us welcome you to the States.”
Quentin raised a black, regal eyebrow.
Got you, jerk. Let’s see if you can handle me blowing your creepstory to the real authorities. If I let his parents know about his behavior, there’d be no way he’d get off scot-free.
“Oh, how lovely,” Mom said, clapping her hands. “That’s a wonderful idea.”